


Death Of Me

by synonomy



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Barebacking, Blood and Gore, M/M, Mental Instability, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 03:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20717522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonomy/pseuds/synonomy
Summary: In his bones, Six knows he isn't the same person he was before Goodsprings. He's a stranger in his own body, somebody he doesn't understand. Somebody he probably wouldn't have liked, if he'd met them before.That person probably wouldn't have liked Boone, either. Perhaps things are better this way.





	Death Of Me

**Author's Note:**

> So this game ate my brain entirely.
> 
> Was anybody else unaccountably turned on by Boone growling and killing things with that big gun as you roamed around with him? No? 
> 
> Well, anyway. This is the result of... that. If you're interested, [**this**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZrujXrB1_aE) is undoubtedly the song that goes with this.

There are a lot of them. Six counts at least twelve, but it's hard to know for sure from this far away. Their vantage point isn't the best, crouched on a rocky hill not much higher than the road the legionnaires are walking. There are a couple of decani in the group, and their weapons are high-caliber. It would probably be unwise to engage them.

But they have slaves with them, too. Poor ragged souls limping along behind their captors. Six glances at Boone, and his stomach kicks.

Yeah, they're doing this.

Boone kills about half of them before they even detect their position. Six is still amazed by the ease with which Boone handles that rifle, how quickly and efficiently he can snap from target to target. Most of the legionnaires break for cover, but a few run towards them, machetes raised. One hides behind his slave. Six will particularly enjoy seeing that one eat lead.

With a last approving glance at Boone, Six shuffles down their hill, keeping cover and letting them come to him. He wets his lips, flexes his fingers in their steel casing. He's ready.

The first one lunges at him with a lot of grandeur, arm arcing widely through the air. _Idiot._ Six ducks, pistons back up hard, the velocity of his uppercut smashing the legionnaire's jaw clean in two. Another solid blow to the stomach, and his assailant is retching before he even hits the ground, writhing and gurgling horribly in a puddle of blood and vomit.

Between shots, Boone spits a warning; Six turns just in time to block the strike with his forearm, sparks flying as metal hits metal. This one fights a little better than his friend, light-footed, blade slicing swiftly through the air.

But still not good enough. Six puts him down with a parry and slam to the temple, skull splitting beautifully under his fist. The next one follows suit. The two after that have Six panting with exertion, weaving and punching, muscles burning. A challenge at last, but Six isn't dying today.

He has no idea how long it lasts. Could be minutes, could be hours. Time always seems to slow down, when they do this. When the last one finally hits the ground, Six ducks back down next to Boone, breathing hard.

"Any left?"

"Just one," Boone says through gritted teeth. He's taken a knee now, face shining and shoulder stiff against the stock of his rifle. "You hurt?"

"Nah," Six says. He drops to his knees with a groan, body still screaming at him. The slaves are huddled together at the side of the road. Maybe afraid to leave with their collars still attached. Probably not. The pit of Six's stomach is tight and hot. "You?"

Boone shakes his head. He's watching the slaves too.

A bullet hits the side of their hill, spraying shards of rock over their heads, making them both jump.

Boone swears, lowering his eye back behind the scope. "Got you," he mutters lowly.

Six breathes deeply. Boone's shirt is dark with sweat and plastered against his back, biceps straining with the effort of holding his rifle steady. Six watches him line up the shot, brow furrowed, concentration laced through every inch of him. When Boone inhales hard, finger twitching on the trigger, Six realizes he's holding his breath too.

The bang makes him flinch even though he was expecting it. A few hundred feet away, blood and brain matter explodes from behind a boulder, scattering like a firework and raining across the sand.

And then, silence. The two of them just breathing.

Eventually, Boone rises, slings his rifle over his back. "They were heading east. Think I know where they were going."

Six nods, mostly to himself, since Boone is staring towards the horizon, eyes hidden behind his shades. "I'm gonna go take a look at those collars."

The road is a mess, covered in blood and viscera, already drying into large, sticky stains. Six is covered in it too, tacky on his skin and in his hair, under his nails. A few months ago, it would have utterly disgusted him. Before Benny, Six had never considered himself a violent man. He just did what he had to do to survive. Didn't go looking for trouble, but if trouble found him, he'd handle it. He never used to enjoy killing.

Funny how a couple of bullets to the brain can change everything. The scars under Six's hair are long since healed, good as new to anybody who might glance at him. He'd never tell them that he still feels the pain in his head anyway, as though the lead were still embedded there. That, at night, he still hears the shots ringing in his ears as though it were yesterday.

He'd thought - or hoped, maybe - that killing Benny might also kill this new sickness inside him. He should have known better. Boone probably would have set him straight, if he'd asked.

The slaves are skittish, reluctant to let Six near them. Even when divested of their collars, most of them don't run, looking at Six with sad, blank eyes. He has no idea what to say to them now. He's long since stopped trying to convince them they're free.

Boone doesn't help him loot the bodies, still staring off into the distance when Six rejoins him. The sun is getting low in the sky.

Six hesitates. "Shall we make camp?"

"No," Boone says. "Let's go."

Six doesn't argue. He knows why Boone doesn't want to be here.

It feels good, knowing things about Boone. Knowing Boone trusts him to know. Trusts him enough, anyway. 

They've never had much need for words. From that very first night in Novac - from the moment he'd laid eyes on him, even - Six had known who Boone was. Just recognized something in him, something he'd also come to know about himself. Didn't matter what he'd done, the baggage he was quite clearly carrying. The rhythm they fell into came natural, Six scouting ahead and those steady sniper's footsteps owning the ground behind him; Boone's shots echoing in the air and bones crunching under Six's metal fists. 

But things feel different, now. Six doesn't want to pry, doesn't want to force Boone to relive things he finds painful, but he'd be lying if he said he doesn't want to know. At some point, any degree of familiarity Boone showed him started to feel precious, and now Six is greedy for it. Increasingly so, these days.

They walk in silence until the moon rises. Only then does Boone acquiesce to making camp. At sunrise, they head east. Boone doesn't elaborate on where they're headed, but Six has a hunch.

"We going where I think we're going?"

Boone shrugs a shoulder. "If you're not up for it, I won't blame you."

"Didn't say that."

Boone doesn't answer, eyes on the road ahead. He's walking beside Six, today.

Six keeps his eyes forward too. "So now's the time, huh. Just like that?"

There's a long pause before Boone sighs. "Guess I got tired of waiting."

"Well shit, if I'd known you were itching that bad, we could have gone sooner."

"Not what I mean."

"No?"

Another pause. "It's just been a long time coming, that's all."

Six gets the impression he doesn't mean Caesar's death, which is rather confusing. "What has?"

Out the corner of his eye, Six sees Boone shake his head. "Doesn't matter. Let's just keep moving."

Six wants desperately to push him, but he knows Boone well enough by now to know better. "Last time I was there, Caesar told me he'd have his goons hack me to death with their machetes if I ever came back."

"Should've knocked his head off his fucking shoulders."

Six smiles. "I almost did."

"So why didn't you?" It's almost accusatory.

Six bristles. "There were about ten of them and one of me. All with ballistic fists. I know you gun-wielders think us hand-to-hand specialists are a bunch of meathead thugs, but trust me when I tell you there's no withstanding that kind of assault. At least not without a suit of high quality power armor, which unfortunately I'd left in my other pants."

Surprisingly, Boone huffs a laugh. It's a pleasing sound. "Alright, sorry."

Six rubs at his arm with his free hand, tracing the edge of a half-healed gash. "Honestly, I'm not sure the odds are much better even with two of us. We'll need to have a good plan. At least I know the layout of the camp, now."

Boone says nothing. Up ahead, a coyote darts across the road and into a field of cacti. Next to Six, Boone's breath is deep and even. The heels of his boots scuff against the broken tarmac every so often. Six swallows thickly. Something feels wrong, but he can't seem to make himself focus. He's too hot in his leather, tacky and filthy all over.

He says, "We'll be passing close to the Strip. Let's stop and resupply."

Boone makes a negative noise. "I'm good."

"Well, I'm not," Six says firmly. "I need a shower so bad it's not even funny. And we could definitely both do with a visit to Gannon. Seems like a good idea to be in the best shape possible before we do this, no?"

Boone sighs frustratedly. "Fine."

The plan settled, Six should feel secure. But disregarding the normal flutter of nerves around what they're planning to do, he feels uneasy. Boone is far too calm. 

Six is often calm too, nowadays. Didn't used to be, he thinks. The picture is blurry when he thinks back to Before, his sense of self from that time oblique and hard to grasp, like sand running through his fingers. But calm people don't make the decisions he used to. Impulsively snapping up any job, no matter how dangerous, for profits that were barely even worth it half the time.

In terms of risk, not much has changed. But aside from the baser pleasure he takes in it, there's real direction in what Six does now, satisfaction and fulfilment where there was only reckless indifference before. If the price of failure wasn't a strong enough deterrent for him when he had no purpose then it definitely isn't now that he does. Clearly it's the same for Boone, but something still feels off.

Six hitches his backpack higher on his shoulder, inwardly shakes his head. Perhaps Boone will tell him on his own, once they start getting closer to the Fort.

The day passes achingly slowly in a blur of dust and sweat. They don't run into any major trouble, just a couple of geckos, a lone Legion scout a mile away that had no idea Boone even existed until his bullet went through his head. But it's hot and tedious and tiring, and by the time the sun disappears behind the horizon, Six thinks he might fall asleep on his feet. 

Blessedly, they find an abandoned shack. There's a couple of mattresses inside, no filthier than Six already is, so he collapses onto the closest one, barely having the presence of mind to pull off his power fist. This is normally the point they'd decide who gets first watch, but Boone will just have to forgive him.

The sound of Boone pacing around the shack fades into the darkness. Six's wrists are raw. His face feels flaky, dirt dried on his cheeks. He's on the ground, curled in on himself in the glow of the moon like a performer under a spotlight. There are feet all around him, bodies looming over him. He can feel their presence, sinister and surrounding.

Fear, laced through every capillary in him. He's lost, helpless to it.

A footstep, a click of a lighter. A blur of black and white, a flash of silver.

_You've made your last delivery, kid._

Six can feel himself shaking. It wasn't meant to end like this. He should never have taken the fucking job. He just needed the caps, always needed just a few more caps.

His fists are clenched, flexing against the restraints. He's angry, he realizes. It feels... different, somehow. New, which doesn't make sense. This can't have ever happened before. Staring down the barrel, the utter loathing Six feels for the man behind it is overwhelming. He isn't prepared to cower anymore, hauls himself onto his knees. His fists ache to find their home in Benny's ribcage.

_Benny._ Wait, how does Six know his name?

His eyes focus. Yes, he knows this man. And he knows the man next to him too, but it's all wrong. Boone isn't supposed to be here. It was a shovel, not a rifle. And it wasn't pointed at Benny, point-blank against his temple.

The shot pierces the air. But there's no blinding flash of light, and Six's head doesn't split open. It's Benny's blood that splatters the dirt, Benny's body that crumples to the ground. The relief is so intense Six wants to cry, flooding up from the pit of his stomach and consuming him whole. Boone's bicep flexes as he smoothly sidesteps to kill the other fleeing Khans, shoulders hunched, knuckles whitening as he pulls back the bolt.

_You can't run from me._

Frantic footsteps echo through the earth under Six's knees, fading slowly as bodies hit the ground all around them. Dismal cries trail off into the night air, pitiful pleas falling on deaf ears. _Bang, thud, click._ Repeat.

And then it's over, and Six is still alive. His savior lowers his rifle and steps slowly towards him, heavy boots scuffing the dirt. The relief swells up and settles into something else, something dark and desperate. 

A foot collides with his chest and shoves him flat on the ground, right next to his own fucking grave. Six stretches his bound hands above his head, arches up against the solid pressure on his sternum.

_Please, god, please._

Boone is there instantly, pushing between Six's thighs, stretching out over him. Eyes hidden behind his shades and mouth curved in a dangerous smile.

Large, strong hands pull Six's clothes out of the way, yank his hips up into Boone's lap. Six knows he's panting, but he can't hear himself over the wind. He's still helpless, caught, but there's no fear anymore. Nothing except pure, unadulterated _need._ A need that Boone instinctively understands, pinning him down and taking him roughly, possessively, spreading him open until he thinks he might break apart all over again.

Six wakes with a gasp, bolting upright. It takes him a long moment to remember where he is. His eyes dart around the shack and land on Boone, sat propped against the wall with his rifle in his lap.

Waking up sweat-drenched and panting isn't unusual for either of them. It's always been an unspoken rule between them that they pretend not to notice. But even though his expression is hard to read in the gloom, Six gets the distinct feeling Boone is watching him. He feels his face heat.

"It's your turn," Boone says.

"...Right," Six says shortly. "Yeah, okay."

A pause. Then Boone sets his rifle aside, sliding down onto his back, crossing his arms behind his head.

And Six is alone in the dark with his thoughts.

He already knew, of course he did. Probably since the beginning. But recognizing something isn't the same as accepting it. As long as it wasn't interfering with anything, then it wasn't relevant. Not like it could actually happen, after all. Even if Boone is inclined that way, Six can't compete with the dead.

But the dream has left him feeling shaken, vulnerable. Hard. He turns onto his side, clamps his hands under his armpits. Tries to pretend he can't still feel Boone inside him.

If he's honest with himself, he knows he's been watching Boone more than usual recently. There's just something so dangerously captivating about the person Boone becomes when faced with Legion, the contrast between that passionate, merciless rage and the quiet reticence of the Boone Six travels with. Six despises Caesar too, of course, but his hatred isn't personal the way Boone's is. 

Bearing witness to something so intensely private is almost intimate, sacred. Somewhere along the line, Six has grown to crave it.

It's a long night. Around dawn, Boone starts to fidget in his sleep, murmuring low and pained. Six takes his cue to go outside. The sky is a deep, cloudless purple, fading into glowing pink along the line of the horizon. Everything is strangely still and quiet, the desert finding a far more peaceful sleep than either of them, it seems. Six stares up at the fading stars as he pees behind the shack, torn between dread and anticipation for the day ahead.

In the morning, they clean up as best they can, carefully avoiding looking at each other. Share a gecko steak and a couple of apples, set off a couple hours after sunrise, barely two words passing between them the whole time.

Boone is still walking next to him. Six swallows. There's definitely a tension in the air between them, a subtle fragility in their dynamic that wasn't there before. He can't stop thinking about earlier, waking up with Boone's eyes on him. He wonders how long they were on him for. What he might have said or done in his sleep to attract them. Even in the harsh light of day Six swears he can still feel Boone's eyes on him, subtle side-glances burning the side of his face.

It used to be comforting, feeling Boone's presence. Knowing somebody else was taking care of seeing things other than what's right in front of them. Now, it's just making Six feel even more insane than he already is.

"Company."

Six startles, pulled out of his thoughts. There's a group of men off the road in the distance, cresting the top of a hill. Looks like a Legion scouting party.

"Shit, okay," Six says quickly. "I count five. Don't think they've seen us yet, we can-- _fuck,_ Boone!"

Pain rips through his ear as the shot pierces the air; Boone fired right next to him. Hissing and clutching the side of his head, unable to hear much besides tinny ringing, Six can't stop Boone from rushing off into the desert. Panic rises like bile. They're completely out in the open, nothing to hide behind, and the enemy has the higher ground. It isn't like Boone to be so reckless. His madness always has method. Six yells after him uselessly, shaking his head to try and clear the ringing as he stumbles to follow. 

It looks like Boone got one of them, at least, a crimson-clad body crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the hill. The other four have scattered, two spearmen retreating back up the hill and two machete troopers rushing towards Boone, ducking and weaving to avoid his shots. Six shouts a frantic warning as a spear arches through the air; it misses Boone by inches, splitting a barrel cactus clean in two as it pierces the ground. Six's feet thump hard against the sandy dirt as he charges forward, desperate to put himself between Boone and the machetes. If they get to him first--

He's a few feet away from them when one of the trooper's heads explodes, barely giving Six enough time to duck his head to avoid a faceful of brains. It stops the other one dead in his tracks, eyes darting wildly from Boone to Six and back. There's a brief, surreal moment where all Six can see is the fear in his face, frozen like a hare in a spotlight.

And then Six buries his power fist in his chest, sending him sprawling backwards with a hacking cry, blood spurting out of his mouth as he smacks hard against the ground.

There's a whoosh of air by his ear as another spear whizzes past his head. He swears, dithering, unsure he can make it to the spearmen before they put him down. But Boone makes the decision for him, strafing in front of him, bent low over his rifle.

The first shot is breathtakingly perfect, catches the trooper square in the forehead and sends him flying backwards, disappearing over the hill. Six can't do anything but watch as Boone reloads, impossibly quick, efficient. He sidesteps to avoid another spear, rifle raising once more, and the second shot gets the final trooper in the chest. Even from this far away, Six hears him cry out, sees him crumple and collapse, tumbling down the hill and laying still where he lands.

Silence, then. Just the hum of crickets in the dry grass around them. Slowly, Boone lowers his rifle, mouth pressed in a tight line.

Six is breathing hard. "What the fuck was that."

Boone turns his head towards him, but says nothing. Six wants to shake him, scream at him. Suddenly desperately wishes he would lose the shades.

There's a splutter from the floor, and they both jump. The legionnaire Six caught eyes with is still alive, sprawled on his back and clutching at his chest. His breaths are ragged and wheezing. Arcade's voice runs through Six's mind-- _broken ribs, bruised trachea, maybe a collapsed lung._

"Goddamn it," Six mutters. He thought for sure he'd hit him hard enough. "Must be losing my touch."

"Nah," Boone says. The trooper tries to reach for his machete; whimpers pitifully when Boone steps on his fingers. "They're just used to taking a beating. Why they're always so eager to dish them out, too."

The legionnaire tries to spit something at them, but his words are lost among his hacking coughs. Six regards him for a moment. Young, can't be more than nineteen or twenty. Maybe a new recruit. Maybe an ex-tribal, indoctrinated from childhood. He stares up at them with wide, fierce eyes, blood still leaking from his mouth, as red as the uniform he wears. Six wonders if he even understands what that uniform means.

It doesn't matter. He'd have gladly killed them anyway, if they hadn't beaten him to it.

Six looks to Boone, expecting him to raise his rifle, but Boone is still, sun reflecting off his shades. His thigh tenses, and there's the distinct crunch of bones breaking under his boot. The kid gurgles and writhes, snot and tears bleeding into the blood running down his neck.

Six says, "Boone."

Boone doesn't look up. He raises his foot, slings his rifle on his back, and picks up the machete the kid was reaching for.

Maybe Six should say something. This doesn't feel normal, as fucked up as normal is for them. Doesn't feel like Boone, but maybe Six doesn't really know Boone anyway. Maybe he's just been kidding himself this whole time, thinking they have any kind of understanding between them at all. Maybe the things Boone holds back would make getting shot in the head look laughably trivial. Maybe Six has no right to stop him.

So he doesn't.

The legionnaire survives the first strike, but quiets after the second. Boone keeps swinging anyway, until he's grunting with the effort and pieces of the kid fly off the metal with every backswing. When Boone finally straightens up, he's panting hard, face splattered with blood, teeth bared. He looks almost feral.

Six can't take his eyes off him. The adrenaline has settled low in his stomach, hot and dark and exhilarating.

"Boone," he says again, but his tone is entirely different this time, voice thin.

Boone looks at him like he'd forgotten Six was there. Six almost chokes at the intensity of his gaze. _He knows,_ Six thinks wildly. _He knows and he's going to leave._ But the moment comes and goes and Boone doesn't go anywhere except back towards the road, tossing the machete aside and wiping his blood-splattered glasses on his shirt as he goes. Just carrying on, like he doesn't know exactly what he's doing to Six, like he doesn't even care that absolutely everything has changed.

It takes Six a long moment to get himself together enough to follow. The rest of the day is spent in heavy, bizarre silence. Later, when the moon has risen, they stop at an abandoned building for the night. There's only one bed in the whole place, a large double. It might be comical, if Six wasn't strung out to the absolute limit.

If Boone notices, or cares, he doesn't show it. He sits on the edge of the bed, facing the door, rifle in his lap. "I'll take first watch."

Six can only nod. He tries not to hesitate before he rounds the bed, stripping off his fist and jacket. He lays down in the most detached way he can manage, facing the wall. Boone's weight dips the mattress hard behind his back. He's not much bigger than Six, technically, but it feels as if he is. He carries his strength differently, muscles tight and controlled, like the rifle is an extension of him rather than something he uses. He's nothing like Six, driven entirely by his adrenaline, fist flying with reckless abandon.

The air in here is cool, and he can feel Boone's heat. Six breathes deeply, tries not to think about the way Boone looked as he slaughtered those legionnaires. Tries not to focus on every fucking detail, every piece of Boone's body he couldn't keep his eyes away from. The spread of his shoulders, the flex of muscles in his back and biceps. Every inch of him entirely, enticingly masculine.

He tries not to remember Boone's face. Six isn't sure he welcomes the feeling it stirs within him, familiar, but somehow darker than the sick satisfaction Benny taught him to feel. Not sure he wants to examine what it might mean about himself.

He must have fallen asleep, because Boone is shaking his shoulder. "Hey. Your turn."

Six blinks blearily. It's still gloomy, but he can faintly hear birds outside. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

Boone hovers there for a moment, leaning over him in the dark. Six can't see his expression. He's suddenly very aware of his own body, his cock pressed hard against the front of his pants. Was he dreaming again? Or is this just how his body responds to Boone now?

God, it would be so easy. So, so easy to grab Boone's shirt and pull him down, press their mouths together. So fucking easy to undo his belt, slip a hand inside. So incredibly easy to let Boone pull his clothes off and spread his legs for him, feel himself completely covered by all that weight and strength.

The moment seems to stretch on forever, quiet breaths between them in the dark, until Boone stands up. "I gotta piss. I'll do a quick scout while I'm out there."

"Alright," Six says. His mouth is dry.

The second Boone is gone, he gives in. Shoves a hand down his pants and brings himself off hard and fast, heel of his other hand between his teeth. It's the best thing he's felt in forever, but as the aftershocks fade, he realizes he's still not satisfied, just even messier than before. When Boone comes back, Six leaves to take his watch downstairs. Spends more time staring at the wall, feeling distinctly like a final nail was just hammered into his coffin.

They set out at sunrise, back at the Strip by noon. They travel silently, and don't run into any trouble. Before, that would have been a relief. Now, it's disappointing. In his bones, Six knows he isn't the same person he was before Goodsprings. He's a stranger in his own body, somebody he doesn't understand. Somebody he probably wouldn't have liked, if he'd met them before.

That person probably wouldn't have liked Boone, either. Perhaps things are better this way.

In the elevator, the silence is deafening. The doors creaking open makes Six jump. Boone brushes past him into the suite, shoulder nudging Six's, and for a moment, Six can't breathe. It's silent in here, too.

"Guess Gannon must be out helping Julie." Just for something to say.

Boone grunts. "You want first?

"Don't mind."

There are two tubs in the bathroom, but neither one of them have ever suggested anything other than taking turns. Something else Six has to try not to think about as he lies on his bed, listening to the water run next door.

Evening rolls around, and Arcade still isn't back. Alone in his room, Six would normally be enjoying the peace and quiet, the freedom of plain clothes and soft sheets against his clean skin. Instead, he's hyper-aware of every little noise Boone makes elsewhere in the apartment. Those sure, firm footsteps. He can't read, can't focus on cleaning his power fist, can't drown it out with music. He's stuck, utterly.

Sighing frustratedly, Six heads for the kitchen. Maybe whiskey will work.

Boone is in there, because of course he is. Seemingly with the same idea, sat in the end chair with a bottle already open on the table. Six hesitates in the doorway. When Boone drinks, he gets quiet. Somehow even more than usual. And although he doesn't say it, those are the times Six can tell he wants to be left alone.

He's about to leave when he notices the knife in Boone's hand, the scarlet dripping from his other palm.

"What the fuck?" Six snaps, rushing over and grabbing Boone's wrist, pulling the knife away. "What are you doing?"

"Shrapnel," Boone says lowly, not looking at him.

Six takes his other wrist, swears when he sees the mess Boone's made of his palm. There's too much blood to even gauge how bad it is. "Idiot. This isn't how you deal with it."

Boone shrugs. "Gannon's not here. Figured I could get it out myself."

"You could have come to me," Six says. He's not as skilled as the doctor yet, but he knows his way around a scalpel and a pair of tweezers.

Boone says nothing, keeps staring at the air where his hand just was. Even in his suite sweatpants, he still wears the beret. Not the glasses, though. Maybe that's why he won't meet Six's eyes.

"Idiot," Six says again, quieter. "Come on, let me clean it up."

It feels wrong, tugging at Boone's wrist. Despite usually being the one in front, Six has never felt like he was _leading_ Boone anywhere. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Boone yields, allows himself to be taken over to the sink and his hand to be placed under the water stream.

Six swears again when he gets a better look at it. He really has made a mess, a hunk of flesh gouged out from the heel of his hand, leaving a raw, ragged wound.

Six leans close, inspecting it carefully. "I can't see any shrapnel."

Boone grunts. "Guess I got it."

Six suddenly feels vaguely nauseous, and it's nothing to do with the blood. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

Boone just nods. Six tries to stay calm as he retrieves the med kit. When he comes back Boone is still obediently in the same position, standing limply, watching his hand drip blood into the sink.

Six takes a deep breath. "Sit down."

Boone does. Six pulls up a chair in front of him, places Boone's hand palm-up on a clean towel. He stays almost completely silent as Six tends to the wound, save for the occasional catch of breath. When Six glances up, he finds a muted version of the expression he saw yesterday: brow tight and jaw clenched, lip pulled back almost into a snarl.

Six feels his face heat. "Gonna be hard to handle your rifle for a few days." His voice is a little hoarse. He feels light-headed, breathless. It's achingly intimate, this delicate touching, the easy pliancy of Boone's hand as Six manoeuvres it around the gauze and bandage. Their knees are almost touching. "Maybe we shouldn't head out just yet."

"No." Boone shakes his head firmly. "I need to--" He trails off, sighs deeply, tiredly. "I just want it over with."

"What are you talking about?" Six asks, heart thudding, but he already knows. What Boone said on the road, the Legion scouts... this. Probably known it all along, just another thing he didn't want to consider until it was slapping him in the face. "You don't think we're coming back from the Fort."

Boone looks at him almost defiantly. "I don't know about you."

Six's anger is sudden and surprising. "If that's the way it is, then we're not going."

"You do what you want."

"You're not going, either," Six snaps. "I'd rather kill you myself before I let you do it."

Boone shrugs. "Doesn't matter anyway. Even if we don't go, it'll come for me sooner or later."

"What, death?" Six asks impatiently. "It comes for us all eventually, Boone. Doesn't mean we should run willingly towards it."

"No," Boone says, staring hard at the stove, fingers curling and uncurling in Six's hold. "There’re plenty of things worse than death. Things that always seem to happen to people that get close to me."

Six's breath catches, anger evaporating as quickly as it came. "That wasn't your fault."

The noise Boone makes is almost like a laugh, hollow. "Yeah, it was. I was weak. Knew I had bad things coming to me; let myself get involved anyway. Legion may have taken her, but truth is, I have nobody to blame but myself." He snatches up the whiskey with his free hand, takes a long pull and sits back, breathing hard.

Six wants to take it from him, but he's not sure he'd survive the attempt. He wants to say he understands, but he's not sure he does. Not sure he can, without finally asking the questions he's been denying himself for so long. He takes a breath. "Why do you think you have bad things coming?"

Boone sighs frustratedly, almost snaps, "Because it's what I deserve. You take out a debt, it's only a matter of time before someone comes collecting."

Six's gut is churning unpleasantly, mind racing. He can't imagine there's anything Boone could have done that'd be worse than what the pair of them already do together. Six isn't even sure there still exists an evil he'd be justified in feeling morally outraged by, anymore. "People don't get what they deserve," he says quietly. "They just get what they get. You _really_ think there's any justice in this world? After everything we've seen?"

There's a tense little silence. Boone swallows hard, brow furrowing. "Maybe not," he says eventually. "But god help me, I wish there were. "

"You do your part," Six says lowly. "Every time we take out one of those crimson fucks, the scale tips a little more evenly." 

Boone snorts. "Will never even be _close_ to even if we don't go to that Fort."

"We can go. But we're coming back," Six says firmly. "Both of us."

Boone doesn't argue. He drinks again, slams the bottle down, panting. His lips are wet and shining.

God, he's gorgeous. Six startles, remembers what he's supposed to be doing, face flushing. He leans forwards so he won't have to look at Boone, just trying to lose himself in the process of wrapping and tucking the bandage. Making sure it's secure, that everything within his control is the best it can possibly be. But eventually, Six has to admit to himself he no longer has any reason to still be touching him.

"Done." Six stands, brusque, starts to gather up his things. "Don't get it wet."

Boone's good hand closes around his wrist and Six flinches, can't help it. Their eyes meet, and the rest of the room melts away.

"Look," Boone says, quiet. "I'm not-- good, at this sort of thing. But... thanks. You know, for sticking with me."

"Snipers work in pairs, right?"

Boone doesn't smile, quite, but the corner of his mouth twitches as though he's thinking about it. "You're not a sniper. You lied to me."

"Only time I have," Six says, ignoring the twist in his stomach. The tender skin of his wrist is tingling under Boone's iron grip. "I just... had to get you to come with me."

Boone's gaze is even harder to meet without the shades, eyes more intense than the Mojave sun. "Why?"

Six can't look away, helpless, blinded. "You know why."

Boone frowns, fingers loosening on Six's wrist. Heart fluttering unpleasantly, Six turns to leave, only to be pulled back down, barely catching himself on the table.

Everything freezes. Face to face, only a few inches apart, Six suddenly feels like he can barely breathe. Desire lurches up inside him like a wave. He knows Boone can see it. 

He lets Boone see it.

Boone doesn't push him away. His eyes flutter over Six's face like he's searching for something there. Eventually he sighs, shaking his head sadly. "This is a mistake."

Six's whole being sears in protest, but still-- it's confirmation, acknowledgement. Six isn't in this alone. "Even if fate does exist, we've already tempted it," he says breathlessly, slowly leaning into him. "No point stopping now."

Boone's frown deepens. When his lips part, just barely, Six kisses him. Just a clumsy press of lips, light hint of whiskey, spit and stubble. He's not even sure he meant to do it.

A hand lands on his shoulder, roughly pushes him off. Boone holds him at arm's length, scowling, nostrils flared. "Don't do that again."

The confusion is crushing. Six opens his mouth to say-- something. Apologize, yell, beg. Instead, breath leaves his mouth in a shocked huff as Boone abruptly stands, sending him stumbling backwards. Strong hands catch him by the biceps, turn him and shove him against the table. There's a clunk of glass and a splash as the bottle tips over, rolling off onto the floor. Six narrowly avoids landing in a puddle of spilled whiskey as Boone pushes him flat, pressing between his dangling legs.

Instantly, frantically, Six is arching up towards him, reaching for him aimlessly. He needs Boone against him, needs to feel their bodies pressed together. Instead, Boone grabs his wrists and slams them against the table too, pinning Six's hands down either side of his head. Six exhales long and hard, mind flashing back to his dream, echoes of Boone holding him down, boot pushing Six into the ground. He can't help but groan, hips twitching up involuntarily.

Boone regards him for a long moment, narrowed eyes moving over Six's sprawled body, dark and searching. His voice is quiet, but not tentative, when he says, "I don't know what to... do. With you. You'll have to tell me."

Six breathes deeply, mind racing. It's not exactly dirty talk-- the question is genuine, borne from an obvious inexperience, but it might as well be for how Six reacts to it. The idea of talking Boone through this, asking for what he wants so plainly... it's overwhelming. As is the desire to keep him here. Boone doesn't seem nervous - put Six right where he wanted him without hesitation - but the situation is undeniably tenuous. Push too quickly, too intensely, and Six is liable to scare him away. He couldn't bear that, not now he's felt Boone against him, tasted what it might be like.

Six swallows, wets his lips. "First, take off that stupid fucking beret."

Boone narrows his eyes, but obeys, temporarily releasing one of Six's wrists to slide it down the table out of the way. It's strange to see Boone's face so naked, the heavy line of his brow and handsome curves of his jaw. His neck is long and white where it's stretched out above Six's face, broken beautifully by the bump of his throat. Six desperately wants to put his mouth there. He suddenly wonders how far Boone's boundary goes. If he'd let Six kiss him anywhere else.

Fuck, Six is almost panting already. He's not sure he could last long enough even if Boone did let him. Distantly, he registers himself still pulling against Boone's hold on him, body arching up towards him as though magnetically drawn there. Boone holds him steady, Six's wrists sweaty and tender under his strong, callused fingers. Six looks up at him helplessly. He looks intent, focused. The same way he does with his rifle in his hands and his eye behind the scope.

Six huffs and stills, lets his head thunk back against the table. "So this is how you want it?"

Boone answers easily. "Yeah."

Such simple honestly is entirely unexpected; heat twists fiercely in Six's gut. "Yeah," he finds himself saying. "I thought it might be like this."

Boone nods. "I've known this was coming," he says. Hushed, like it's a secret. "For a while. Could sense it between us. Didn't know what to do about it. Thought maybe I could stop it, if I just kept myself in check. Should've known better."

"I've wanted you since the beginning," Six admits recklessly.

Boone's brow pulls tight. "You have?"

"Yeah," Six says quietly. "Just... didn't want to complicate things, I guess."

"So... all this time," Boone says distantly, like it's to himself. He looks confused, frustrated. Every molecule in Six's body wants to reach for him.

"All this time," Six breathes. He pulls against Boone's hold again, desperation steadily rising. Six could dislodge him, if he really wanted to. Wrap his legs high on Boone's waist and fling them both sideways, rear up and headbutt him in the nose-- Six is a scrapper, a grappler, knows how to use his body to his advantage in a way Boone simply doesn't, straight-laced soldier that he is. Instead, he begs. "Come on, Boone. Please."

Something flickers over Boone's face, flares in his eyes. "What?" he asks lowly. "What do you want?"

Six's breath catches in his throat, almost breaks on a whine. His thighs hitch up around Boone's hips, feet scrambling until one lands on the seat of a chair, giving him just enough purchase to push his ass up onto the table. Their hips press tighter together, and Six can feel that Boone is hard. It almost makes him flinch, arousal surging through him hot and fierce. It feels real, suddenly, what they're doing. He yanks Boone closer with his knees, grinds up into him. Lets him feel how hard Six is too, all for him.

Boone's mouth goes slack, eyes fluttering, hands tightening around Six's wrists until Six's fingertips start to tingle. "That's not an answer," he says. Breathier, but still firm.

Six almost yells with frustration. Has to force out the words, "Fuck me. Want you to fuck me."

Boone exhales deeply. "Yeah. I think I want that, too."

Six almost moans. "In the med kit, there's--"

Boone nods and reaches for it, fumbling a little with his bandaged hand. Six can see the exact moment realization dawns on him, when he finds what they need, eyebrow raising.

Six might laugh if he wasn't so impossibly turned on. "Get your dick real wet and go slow, at first," he says breathlessly. "But don't be gentle. Fuck me how it feels good for you. Whatever you give me, I'll take it."

Boone exhales thickly. "What if I hurt you."

It's the first real sign of apprehension Six has seen from him since they started this, and it just won't do. Six wants Boone desperate, demanding, animal. He wants the Boone that spat in the face of the Centurion assassin, that put a bullet in the heads of an entire camp of slavers without even needing to reload. The Boone that hacked a legionnaire to death with his own machete.

He holds Boone's eyes steadily. Promises, "I'll take that too."

Boone visibly swallows. Then nods, sets his jaw. "Okay."

"Let me-- it'll be easier if I turn over."

It takes Boone a moment to move, gaze still wandering over Six's body in that stark, calculating way. When he finally releases Six and pushes himself upright, there's a light flush on his cheeks, eyes dilated dark.

He looks almost predatory.

Six gets stuck staring at him for a moment, panting. Mindlessly, he gets to his feet too, presses close. Boone tenses, but Six ducks his head, watches his own hands slide up under Boone's shirt, blood running hot at the feel of all that soft, warm skin. Hi palms grope greedily at the curves of Boone's chest, the hard muscle of his stomach, the sweat-damp dip of his lower back-- all the places his eyes linger that he's never been allowed to touch before. Six wants to take their clothes off so badly, strip them both completely, but Boone reaches up and removes Six's hands from his shirt infuriatingly casually, holding them together at the wrists in front of him.

Six swears under his breath, something frustrated and pleading. Boone ignores him, gets both of Six's wrists in one hand and starts easing his sweatpants down with the other, breath tight and hot on Six's face. Six doesn't realize he's holding his own breath until Boone's cock slaps up against his stomach, just as big as the rest of him, thick and uncut. It's utterly primal, the desire it inflicts, a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. Six wants it inside him so bad, wants it in every way Boone is willing to give it to him.

He almost tries to go to his knees, mouth watering, but Boone steps back and turns him around, pushes him firmly over the table. Six goes easily, breath stuttering, anticipation and nerves making his entire body tremble. Boone's hands are quick and efficient as they yank Six's pants down to his ankles. Six impatiently kicks them all the way off, feels his face burn as he spreads his feet apart, tilts his ass up. He's not above this, not ashamed of asking for what he wants, but feeling Boone's eyes on him like this is too much. He buries his face in his folded forearms and waits, smell of whiskey overwhelming in his nostrils.

There's a long pause, just the two of them breathing, before Boone reaches for the tube. Six hears the cap unscrew, and then slick, dirty noises that make his breath come thinner, imagining Boone stroking over his cock. Another pause, rustle of fabric, and then strong hands slide up Six's thighs, the soft gauze of the bandage making his hair prickle. Slowly, those hands fan out over his ass, thumbs sliding inwards. Six pushes back with a low noise, encouraging. Feels a hint of Boone's hips, the heat of his cock. Boone's thumbs spread him open, and then Six is feeling it for real, blunt head of it rubbing wetly over his hole.

"Yeah," he whimpers, can't help himself. The need is almost painful. "_Fuck_ yeah, put it in me."

"Christ," Boone breathes, and does.

He does go slowly. But the stretch is still excruciating-- not painful, exactly, although it is that, too. More that the tension it creates is so intense Six can't bear it, bleeding into every limb and muscle, suspending him in the limbo between too much and not enough. He can't even remember the last time he did this. Has he ever wanted this so much? It seems impossible. He gets impatient fast, pushes back until his ass is flush against Boone's pelvis, groaning raggedly as he's filled to the limit.

Boone grunts, a satisfying sound, hands wrapping around Six's hips. "You're tight."

It sounds like mere observation more than anything, but it inflames Six anyway. He suddenly wonders how long it's been for Boone, too. If this is his first time since-- he cuts off the thought.

He gasps as Boone rocks his hips a little, testing. "S'good. Fuck me." Boone obediently pulls back, so slowly it feels like he's taking Six's insides with him. The first proper thrust Boone gives him has him reeling, clawing at the table. "_Fuck,_ yeah, like that. Harder."

Boone doesn't hesitate, doesn't ask him if he's sure. He snaps his hips back and plunges in again, their skin colliding with a smack. They both groan, Six's distinctly higher in pitch, voice wrecked already, "_God,_ you feel fucking huge."

Boone roughly kicks his feet further apart. Six almost chokes as the angle changes, Boone's cock sliding impossibly deeper. "Keep talking," he commands Six lowly. His fingers dig brutally hard into the dips of Six's hipbones as he starts to move, pulling his ass back on each push forward, making Six take him to the hilt each time. Six feels his body coming undone stroke by stroke, tension melting away until he's accepting Boone entirely, eagerly. Until he's left feeling utterly, miserably incomplete every time Boone pulls out.

Six does talk. Rambles without a shred of finesse about how good it feels, how he's wanted it forever, how Boone is the hottest fucking thing he's ever seen. Predictable, silly things he'll probably be embarrassed about later, but Boone makes low, approving noises at some of them, so Six keeps saying them. Soon enough, he's telling Boone things he probably shouldn't. How hot Six gets watching him handle that rifle, how good he looks covered in blood, how Six can't wait to drop to his knees and blow him in the middle of Caesar's tent after they've finished slaughtering every single one of them.

Boone swears, twists a hand in Six's hair, yanks his head back. Six hisses, words dying in his mouth. Boone bends low over him, still buried deep, forcing a hard arch into his spine. Six almost chokes, breath caught up tight in his stretched throat.

"That’s fucked up," Boone tells him, breath hot in Six's ear.

"I know," Six gets out.

Boone says nothing more, tucks his face in Six's shoulder and fucks him like that, deep and grinding, fingers still tight in his hair. It gets Six inside just right; he moans, half-formed thoughts of getting a hand under himself bursting and fading like fireworks in his mind. He's not entirely sure he'll even need it. His cock hangs thick and heavy between his legs, pulsing dangerously with every one of Boone's strokes. The sound of their skin slapping is loud and pornographic in the quiet apartment.

Distantly, he hears himself pleading, doesn't even know what for. Boone doesn't listen anyway, keeps right on rolling their bodies together in that same steady, unrelenting way. Just forcing Six to feel it, over and over, heat bleeding out from that point inside and seeping through his entire body. Six's breath starts coming in violent pants, scalp stinging, eyes screwed up against the sweat running into them. He almost chokes when Boone abruptly goes harder, voice high and strangled, legs almost shaking.

Boone doesn't pause. He fucks Six roughly, hand in his hair twisting brutally tight, free hand dimpling his spine, pressing the angle until Six genuinely thinks he might break in half. _God,_ Six still can't believe Boone is doing this. Just dominating him like this, without hesitation. He can’t do anything but grit his teeth and let it happen, let himself be used.

It feels good, being used by Boone. Having him take what he wants.

A few stuttered thrusts later and Boone comes inside him, sinking his teeth into Six's shoulder and groaning low in his chest as his hips kick hard against Six's ass. The sharp spike of pain and hot rush inside him is almost, _almost_ enough to bring Six off too, but not quite. He swears violently as his cock throbs angrily, white noise roaring in his ears. His forehead nearly smacks down into the table when Boone releases him, barely catching himself in time.

Boone is quick to pull out, and Six whimpers pitifully, clenching around nothing. He feels Boone's come start to leak out of him, running down his trembling thighs, and his face flames. He reaches under himself, fingers numb and shaky, but his own touch is still like heaven in his palm. He jerks himself fast and hard, cheek stuck to the table, panting open-mouthed and sloppy. He's sore all over already, muscles screaming at him, shoulder throbbing painfully. Boone is somewhere behind him. The idea of him watching, seeing Six so messed up and used, has him right on the edge in seconds. 

It's possibly the best orgasm he's ever had. For a long moment, Six can't do anything but breathe, lost in blissful oblivion. When he finally gets himself together enough to push himself upright, his arms and legs feel heavy and shaky, decidedly uncooperative as he reaches for his pants and pulls them up his legs. It doesn't feel pleasant with the mess still on his skin, but a quick glance behind him confirms that Boone is already redressed.

Six takes a deep breath, skin prickling. He maybe takes a bit longer than he needs to, reluctant to turn around and meet Boone's eyes, afraid of what he'll see there. When he finally does, Boone doesn't run away, at least, but he definitely doesn't want to look at Six-- arms folded defensively over his stomach, body held so tense it's almost painful to look at. 

He looks lost.

Six's gut twists. "Come here."

Boone shakes his head, but he doesn't resist Six reaching for him, pulling him close. Six runs tentative hands up his biceps, over his shoulders, the warm curves of his neck, still flushed from exertion. He's on edge, half expecting Boone to push him away, but Boone just sighs tiredly, drops his forehead into the crook of Six's neck.

He says, "I don't know what I'm doing." Quiet, resigned.

Six exhales slowly, rubs a hand - soothingly, he hopes - over Boone's spine and shoulderblades. His shirt is a little damp, clinging to him. He smells so fucking good, sweat and soap and musk, unquestionably masculine. It's probably strange to be so overwhelmed by this after what they just did, but Six can't help it. Having Boone so close, this intimacy between them; it's utterly surreal to experience, after so long wanting it, thinking about it, fucking _dreaming_ about it. 

"Did you like it?" Six asks, quiet too.

Boone shifts a little. With his face hidden, Six can't tell if it's embarrassment, or if he's just simply considering the question. "Yeah," he says eventually. "I liked it a lot, actually. Not sure what that means."

"It doesn't have to mean anything," Six says, though his stomach twists in rebellion at the idea. "It felt good, right? That's all that matters."

A pause. Then Boone asks, "Did you mean it? What you said?"

Six huffs a laugh. "Which part?"

Boone shifts again, and it's definitely embarrassment this time. "About. You know. Liking me bloody."

Six feels his face heat. "I think you know the answer to that already."

Boone breathes out deeply, hot against Six's neck. "Not sure what to make of that, either."

Six bites his lip, anxiety squirming in his stomach. "Sorry. If I freaked you out."

"Not freaked out, exactly." Boone's voice is low and thoughtful. He doesn't elaborate further.

Six's hands are still greedily roaming over his body, as though it might be taken away from him at any moment. Because it very well might be. He gives in, asks the question he's been wanting to ask since Boone first put him on the table. "Can we do this again?"

Boone doesn't answer right away. It feels like an eternity before he shrugs a shoulder, grunts almost dismissively. "Guess there's no reason not to, now. Like you said, we've already tempted fate."

It's not the answer Six wanted, but fuck it, he'll take it. He shakes his head, voice firm, "There is no such thing. Things just happen. What happened to you, and to me, was because of _other people._ Other people making choices, the way literally every human being on this planet does. Why shouldn't you make yours?" He tilts his face into Boone's neck, presses a tentative kiss against the soft, warm skin there. "Why should they be the only ones who get what they want?"

Boone lets out an audible breath, hands fluttering over Six's biceps, ironically gentle after how rough he just was. Six isn't expecting him to step forwards, stumbles a little as Boone urges him back against the edge of the table, his face suddenly impossibly close to Six's, eyes dark with intent. Six's stomach twists, hands scrabbling eagerly for Boone's shoulders and pulling him in, so ready for it he can already taste it.

But Boone stops before their lips meet. Lets out a hard breath, a confusing sound, brow pulled tight. It's an expression that Six recognizes.

He looks sad.

Six touches his face, palm cupped against stubbled cheek. Boone's frown deepens. His eyes are shining. Six waits, daren't move, daren't even breathe. Boone leans in, stops himself again, breath catching in his throat. And then again. Finally, he drops his head with a distressed, frustrated noise, face in Six's sore shoulder.

"I can't. I'm sorry."

Six rests a tentative hand on his head, runs his fingers gently through the bristles. "It's okay," he says, because it is, even if it's kind of not.

Boone shakes his head minutely, won't look at him. "This isn't gonna end well. I told you from the start."

"Nothing ever ends well," Six says dismissively. He's tired of talking about it, tired of thinking about it. If he has to live as a monster then he may as well be worthy of the title, somebody who takes what they want and damns the consequences. He wraps his fingers around Boone's wrist, tugs him towards the door. He'll clean up the mess they made later. "Come on. I'll show you my bedroom."

"I've seen it already," Boone says blankly, but he stops resisting, lets Six pull him along.

He's entirely right, of course. For all of Six's earnest declarations, he knows very well there's a pretty damn good chance they won't come back from Caesar's camp alive. He knows a lot of things. Knows that the pair of them are still completely fucked up. Knows he'll never have Boone properly, not really. That he'll always be second best.

But Six also knows that, for now at least, Boone is willing to pretend with him. And Six is greedy, selfish, self-restraint killed right along with his conscience by some asshole in a shitty suit. And if that isn't proof that there isn't any ultimate justice, Six doesn't know what is.

Still, he'll take what little he can get for himself. And for Boone, as long as he'll let him.


End file.
